"That we wither our breasts. Our lovely bellies."
More Perihelion:
Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series
For Love
Take that we starve ourselves.
That the starving is purging us of our unworthiness.
That the wasting away is chiseling away our ugliness.
That there are parts of us best discarded with other shameful waste:
the soft curved belly, the generous nurturing hip, the ample thigh, the plump
nippled tit. Take that we cannibalize ourselves
for its stingiest scraps. Accusing, taunting, pointing the finger,
throwing names at our reflections: Disgusting. Cow. Hog.
That we wither our breasts. Our lovely bellies. That we pare ourselves
to cheekbones, hipbones, the jutting collarbone that say we have atoned
for being more. The sunken, hollow eye–exquisite, rimmed
with its own anemic kohl. Properly chastised for tempting. Delicate purple-blue
blood just beneath the skin. We are sweet plum bruises dying for love,
for it wasn't our fault.
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